


Pagan Angel and a Borrowed Ship

by SeekingIdlewild



Series: Hymns for Lost Angels [2]
Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, M/M, Pre-Slash, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekingIdlewild/pseuds/SeekingIdlewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rush discovers Destiny, he knows that he has found his true purpose. Having someone to share it with is an unexpected bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally stepping way outside my comfort zone here and trying my hand at writing Rush's POV. If I've managed to pull it off, [Potboy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potboy/pseuds/Potboy) gets all the credit.

_Love was a promise made of smoke_  
 _In a frozen copse of trees_  
 _A bone cold and older than our bodies_  
 _Slowly floating in the sea_

_Every morning there were planes_  
 _The shiny blades of pagan angels in our father’s skies_  
 _Every morning I would watch her hold the pillow_  
 _Tight against her hollows, her unholy child_

“Pagan Angel and a Borrowed Car” by Iron & Wine

 

* * *

 

Rush was no stranger to stunning views. He had flown through glittering cities, glided over grasslands and oceans, soared into painted skies, and plummeted into stony canyons. In more recent months, he’d admired vast starscapes as he was ferried to and from Icarus Base. But this… somehow this view was different. Somehow these stars were more beautiful, and this ship… this ship…

Through the window he could see the starship stretching out before him against a backdrop of hazy stars, vast and old and ravaged by time and battle. From this vantage it was impossible to ascertain its exact shape and design, but he saw enough to guess that it was the oldest piece of Ancient technology yet discovered by humans. It was strange to think that just a few hours ago, he hadn’t known this ship even existed. Now that he had found it, he felt as if his entire life, stretching back across space and time and the permeable borders between dimensions, had been preparation for this moment, this discovery. The ever-present ache within his chest, that desperate longing to do and to be more than he was designed for, was finally soothed. He was home.

He heard the click and hiss of the doors opening behind him, and then Eli’s voice, awed and incredulous. “Sheesh! We’re on a ship?”

Rush’s didn’t turn. He was too absorbed in examining the structure of the ship, admiring its archaic beauty, recognizing early prototypes of design elements perfected much later in the Ancients’ history. There was so much here to explore and study and learn from; it would take him ages to discover every secret that this ship was keeping, and he was overjoyed by that prospect. It was a project worthy of an eternal being.

“The design is clearly Ancient,” he commented quietly as Eli stepped up to the railing beside him, “in the truest sense of the word - launched hundreds of thousands of years ago.”

“Doctor Rush?” Lieutenant Scott’s voice, soft and uncertain.

Rush transferred his attention from the ship itself to the undulating halo of phosphorescence surrounding it, and the background flicker of passing stars. “Faster than light, yet not through hyperspace,” he mused aloud.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked.

“Who knows how far it’s traveled?”

“Doctor Rush,” Scott insisted, “I’ve got a lot of wounded. We need to get home.”

Home meant different things to different people, Rush supposed.

He finally tore his eyes away from the window and peered over his shoulder at the young soldier. It was clear from Scott’s expression that he had failed to appreciate his surroundings or to grasp the incredible discovery that they had made. How like a human to be shown wonders and to see only the most unimportant details. But since Scott was here, he might as well clear up one small, niggling question.

“Did Colonel Young make it through?” Rush asked.

It was Eli who answered. “Actually, he’s one of the ones who got hurt,” he said, in a tone that seemed to say ‘it’s totally fine, nothing to worry about’ while simultaneously implying that ‘no, actually it’s really bad.’

Rush continued to watch Scott’s face, which was unusually grim. Scott nodded in confirmation. “He shot through the gate like a bullet,” he said. “Flew all the way across the room and landed hard. I don’t…” he paused, swallowed, started again, “I don’t know how bad it is. TJ’s with him.”

Rush pictured Young’s dark silhouette swooping in for a landing on the balcony at Icarus Base. He thought of Young’s huge, black-tipped wings and strong, solid body, and he recalled the momentary thrill of recognition mingled with dread as the echoes of his past life overlapped with his present. For all that Young was fallen, broken, and lost, for all the soot on his golden wings and the weariness in his eyes, Rush was almost certain that he had once been a deathless soldier of the highest order, one of the most honored and favored individuals in their native land. It was oddly uncomfortable now to imagine him lying wounded on a dirty floor in a dimly lit gate room.

“He’ll be fine,” he said after a moment, because it was true. Any concern he felt now was useless; Young was still a deathless soldier, if somewhat less exalted than in his glory days, and he would heal. And maybe a little dirt was fitting. He was already tarnished, and Rush preferred him that way.

Scott blinked once and looked like he was about to say something heated and factually incorrect, but then Lieutenant Johansen’s voice came through his radio.

“Lieutenant Scott, come in?”

Scott kept his eyes on Rush as he reached for his radio. “Go ahead,” he said into it.

“We’ve got a problem. One of the air vents just shut down in here.”

“Yeah, the air’s getting pretty thin in here too,” Eli commented.

Now that Rush’s attention had been thoroughly diverted from his initial euphoria over the discovery of the ship, he realized that Eli was right. He could feel his lungs working too hard for too little reward, and he imagined that the humans were having an even worse time of it. Well, that certainly presented a problem.

“What does that mean?” Scott asked.

“That the life support system is failing,” Rush said, turning toward the doorway, “and we should probably do something about that.”

 

* * *

 

The first time Rush met one of the Host was on his very first day of existence.

Only hours earlier, he had walked out of the sunrise, blinking in mild surprise at pinky-gray clouds and rolling grasslands and jagged peaks splitting the sky in the background. He’d shaken the dew from his feathers in a daze, barely registering that he _had_ feathers, or that he was real and that the sky was real and that the whole beautiful world was _real_. And then he had walked, stumbling, over meadows and across a brook and through a grove of evergreens until he found a settlement.

It was there that he had first discovered what his feathers were for. The town was full of tall buildings that were open to the elements on two sides, and creatures like himself glided or swooped between them with wings outstretched. So he unfolded his own wings and tried beating the air with them, until he, too, was flying. And it was only then that his senses sharpened, and the realness of the world and of his own self struck him forcibly. That was the moment when his thirst for discovery, for knowledge, awakened within him. He spent the rest of the morning exploring the town, flying over rooftops, peering into buildings, watching the other creatures go about their lives.

The others ignored him for the most part. A few smiled indulgently at him, as if they knew exactly what he was thinking and feeling, but they left him alone. It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun began to sink down toward the distant peaks, that someone actually ventured to speak to him.

He had just landed upon a rooftop on the edge of town, and now he stood at the edge, gazing out toward the rocky horizon. He wondered if he should remain in this town once the sun had set, or if he would rather fly on to explore some other part of this brand new world. He was still trying to make up his mind when he heard the soft whoosh and thunk of someone coming to land behind him. And then a low voice, rich and warm and somehow kind, asked, “Will you fetch me some water?”

Rush was still distracted by indecision, but the novelty of being spoken to was enough to prompt him to turn around. When he did, all other thoughts vanished from his mind, because here was something that deserved his full attention. The other man was tall and well-muscled, clad in red leathers and silver armor with a longsword strapped to his side. His wings were such a bright and reflective shade of gold that it hurt Rush’s eyes to stare at them for more than a handful of seconds. His long hair was nearly the same shade - although less painfully bright - and his skin was a warm honey-brown. A circlet of red and gold flames spun in midair a few inches above his head.

Out of all the people Rush had seen over the course of this thrilling day, this one was unique. Rush had already seen dozens of pairs of wings - gray, like his own, or brown, or rust-colored, or blue, or black, or white. Some were spotted, some mottled, some striped or speckled or just one solid color. All were beautiful in their way, but none were quite like these. And no one else had worn armor, or weapons, or halos of fire. This man was different.

Ignoring Rush’s scrutiny, the man unbuckled his sword belt and eased himself down into a crouch. He tucked his wings in tight against his body, set his back against a pedestal bearing a small statuette, and let out a soft sigh. Then he finally turned his attention back to Rush. “The water?” he prompted.

“There’s a pump on the street below. You can get it yourself,” Rush said, confused.

There was a brief pause during which the other man looked annoyed, confused, and understanding by turns. Eventually, he flashed his teeth in a smile that was nearly as bright as his wings. “You’re brand new, aren’t you?” he asked. “You have a lot to learn about the world, fledgling.”

Yes, of course he had. That was what he’d been working on all day, right up to the moment when this creature had come along asking for water. What sense was there in asking for water that one could get for oneself? What was Rush missing?

“I’m learning everything I can,” he said cautiously.

“Good, that’s good,” said the golden creature, still smiling. “Let me give you one more lesson. When one of the Healers, the Heralds, or the Host asks you for water, you get them water. Understood?”

“But why?”

“Because,” the man said quietly, “that is your function. They have duties of their own to perform, and you have yours.”

“That is _not_ my function,” Rush said sharply, and with conviction.

“Your wings tell a different story. They say that you’re a servant.”

“My wings?” Rush looked back over his shoulder and stared at his mottled gray feathers - which only moments before had been a source of great delight to him - with bitter accusation. “I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, you do,” the stranger said. “We’re all created with the knowledge of our purpose already fixed in our minds. You know yours, just as I knew mine when I first awakened.”

If that was true, then Rush’s purpose must be to explore and question and gain understanding, because that was all he wanted out of life. That was what felt right. Servitude? No. He had not been designed for that.

“And what is _your_ function?” he spat out, angry and distressed. All his joy in his first beautiful day had been destroyed in an instant, and he wanted to lash out and hurt something. Not, perhaps, this man in armor who looked like he could make Rush bleed a thousand times over before Rush could get in a single hit. But something.

“I thought that was obvious,” the man said mildly. “I’m one of the Host.”

“You’re a soldier?”

“Yes.”

Rush grunted discontentedly and let the conversation lapse into strained silence, having no desire to continue talking to this beautiful bearer of bad news. The golden man regarded him thoughtfully, and after a few awkward minutes, stirred himself to ask, “Have you chosen a name yet?”

Rush’s eyes had been on the darkening horizon once more, and he flinched at the sound of that soft voice. “No.”

“Ah. It rarely happens on the first day. You’ll find one that fits soon.”

Rush shrugged to convey his completely lack of interest in the subject.

Another long silence, and then, “Fledgling.”

Now there was just the subtlest note of steel to the man’s voice. Rush deemed it wise to turn back and meet his eyes once more. They were not cold, but they did hold a gentle warning. “I have given you a task to perform. Don’t keep me waiting any longer - that’s a bad habit to let yourself get into. I have more patience than most.”

Rush stared at him, wanting to hit him and run away and cry all at once. But he did none of those things, because he realized that this was a lesson he needed to learn, distasteful as he found it. This world was not as perfect as he had thought, but now that he was here, he had to learn to live in it safely and, he hoped, in reasonable comfort. Getting on the bad side of glowing, burning, weapons-toting creatures like this one would be unhelpful, to say the least.

So he took a deep breath, suppressed his indignation, and fetched the water.


	2. Unrest

As Rush stood in the gateroom and watched the grumbling crowd disperse, he was reminded of his first day, when all his enthusiasm for the tantalizing new world in which he found himself had been dimmed by a dose bitter reality. It was happening again now. He had finally found what he believed to be his true purpose, and he was bursting with joy and enthusiasm for his discovery. Yet he had faced one setback after another from the moment he had stepped on board. He didn’t care about the shouts or the threats. Having a gun pointed at him was less pleasant, but not exactly novel. The looming failure of the life support system was certainly a concern, but he would find the solution to that problem. That was what he was here for, wasn’t it?

But his ill-fated confrontation with the mob was what rankled the most, because authority had always been like water to him; it could soak him to the skin, weigh him down, chill his body, but if he tried to grasp it in his hands, it trickled right through his fingers. He had tried to take command of these desperate humans, provide them with the guidance that they so clearly needed, but they had lost no time in rejecting him. He wondered if they could sense that he had been not been made for leadership. Maybe he wore his centuries of servitude like an invisible brand on his skin, and they all instinctively knew it.

The worst part was seeing how easily Lieutenant Scott had taken control of the situation. Rush may have lived for eleven hundred years, but some things never really changed. There was still a hierarchy, and he still fell somewhere below the highest tier. The people with the weapons were in charge, and he was expected to bow to their commands.

Now Scott stepped closer and fixed him with a steady look. “I think we need you, so I’ve got your back for now,” he said, “but if I were you I would find some way to dial that gate back to Earth.”

Rush didn’t even bother to reply to that unhelpful piece of advice. The last thing he planned to do on a ship with uncertain power reserves was to dial the stargate to a location on the other side of the universe. That could only end in disaster. But the troublesome thing about armed authorities was that they often fell into the trap of believing that they could solve every problem with threats of violence, whether overt or, in this case, implied. Rush was less than impressed.

This had been a waste of time. Let the mortals stew in their blindness and fear. He had work to do.

 

* * *

 

Rush was over nine centuries old when he met the golden stranger again.

The intervening years had been both instructive and, for the most part, intolerably boring. He had learned the names for many things he had not known at his awakening; most important among these was the word for what _he_ was: an angel. He had later found out that other intelligent species existed besides angels, but he knew it was unlikely that he would ever encounter any of them. They were off in other realms and he was stuck _here_.

He had also learned that, because he was a designated servant, his allegiance could be claimed by higher ranking angels at will. He had worked at several different posts over the years, finding enjoyment in some, despising others, and had finally ended up in the Sovereign’s City as a scribe to a Herald. This was by far the most interesting job of the lot, as it had given him many opportunities to learn and create. He had gained access to the Herald’s own library, and to the City’s much more extensive halls of learning. The City itself was vast and beautiful, and it was some time before he had grown tired of exploring it.

But his aching sense of wrongness had never left him, no matter where he went or whom he served. He had always marveled at how contented other servants seemed to be with their lives and duties - they evidently felt fulfilled by the menial work they did, not demeaned or stifled by it. Rush was the only one who was uncomfortable with his place in the world. And as the years had passed, his dissatisfaction had grown into a raw and festering wound with no cure in sight.

Today his restlessness was somewhat soothed by an engrossing task which made extensive use of his budding mathematical skills. He was drawing a map using only a rough sketch, a detailed description, and a list of coordinates for guidance. It had begun as a graph, but its plotted points had blossomed into hills and trees and settlements, and now he was beginning to add the little details - the flourishes, the colorful inks, and the gold leaf - that would allow others to see the beauty that he had recognized in the bare numbers underpinning it all.

When he heard padding footsteps across the room, he immediately put down his pen and looked up. No matter how absorbed he was in his work, he must be ready to set it aside at a moment’s notice and attend to his master’s needs. That lesson had been drilled into his head at a very early age.

Only, it was not his master who had entered the room. It was the golden angel with the fiery halo that Rush had met on his very first day so many centuries ago.

Rush slowly rose from his bench and stared at him in shock. He had forgotten how tall he was, how sturdy and powerful he looked, how brightly his wings shone, and how incongruously kind his eyes were. His sword was buckled to his side, but he was not wearing his armor today. In fact, he looked like he had just come from court. His clothes were made of fine red fabric and embroidered with gold and silver threads. He was dazzling, but in a far less threatening way than before.

“Fledgling,” he said in surprise and, much to Rush’s bewilderment, apparent pleasure.

Rush blinked. “I’m more than nine hundred years old.”

The other angel smiled ruefully. Rush recognized that flash of white teeth from long ago, but not the lines of weariness about the eyes that accompanied it.

“And I’m well over nine millennia, so you’re still a fledgling to me,” his visitor said. “Besides, I’ve heard that Sopheriel’s scribe is called ‘Nameless,’ and I assume that means you.”

“Ah, yes. I never found one that fit,” Rush said with a dismissive shrug.

There was a pause as the golden angel considered him thoughtfully. He didn’t seem to know quite what to make of Rush, but there was no censure in that gaze - only a desire to understand. “Have you thought of requesting an audience with the Sovereign?” he ventured to ask. “You are one of their creatures; they will give you a name if you ask.”

Although it was not the first time this suggestion had been made to Rush, he still recoiled at it. His revulsion must have been written all over his face, because the other angel laughed.

“Thank you,” Rush spat out, “But I’m tired of having my identity determined by others.”

The smile died on the angel’s face, leaving his handsome features to be marked only by fatigue. “I see,” he said. “Yes, I can see that. It’s strange… I knew after our first meeting that I ought to have claimed you. A missed opportunity.”

“What, so you could have forced me to find a sense of purpose in life?” Rush sneered.

“No, no.” A softer smile this time. He seemed to find it too difficult to hold Rush’s gaze any longer, so he looked away, letting his eyes rove around of Rush’s small, cluttered workroom instead. “So that perhaps you could have helped me to remember mine. In retrospect, your attitude was… refreshing. I might have benefited from your unique perspective over the years.”

Almost against his will, Rush was mollified. The knowledge that he had left a lasting impression upon this princely stranger was gratifying, especially since that impression had apparently, against all odds, been a favorable one. He felt better now about the fact that he had never quite been able to banish this man from his own thoughts.

“I would have made a terrible soldier’s servant,” he commented.

“Most likely,” his visitor agreed readily.

Okay, maybe Rush wasn’t completely mollified. “Was there something you needed?” he asked bluntly.

“Actually, I came to see Sopheriel, but I understand from his other servants that he’s away.”

“And you came up here to bother me anyway? Why?” He was being pointedly rude now, to an armed and dangerous member of the Host, of all people, but he found that he didn’t care. There was something about this particular soldier that seemed to bring out his rebellious side. Or maybe it was just that Rush wanted to see how he would react.

“Curiosity,” his visitor replied with no indication that he had taken offense at Rush’s tone. If anything, he seemed amused by it. “I’ve never met a nameless angel before.”

“I suppose you have a name, then?” Even more daring. The man would be well within his rights to give Rush a good thrashing right about now. But the patience that he had claimed to possess so long ago still stood him in good stead, apparently, because he only smiled and shook his head in a vaguely regretful manner.

“It appears I’ve been rude,” he said. “I apologize.”

It was not rude for a high-ranking angel to neglect to introduce himself to a servant, as Rush well knew. He stared in confusion at this golden creature who had given him his first hard lesson so long ago. Back then, he had seemed so determined to put Rush in his place. Now, he was letting Rush get away with behavior that would have gotten him soundly slapped at the very least if his master had been present. Something had changed for this soldier in the past nine centuries. Whatever it was, it might also be the reason for the exhaustion he wore like a heavy mantle across his shoulders.

And then the angel said, “I’m Michael,” and the bottom dropped out of Rush’s stomach.

“M-Michael?” He stuttered out, certain that he must have heard wrong. No, no, this could not possibly be one of the archangels. This couldn’t be the greatest warrior that had ever lived, with untold victories under his belt and aeons of experience at his back.

“That’s right.”

Rush gripped the edge of his desk, feeling like he might fly apart in a thousand pieces if he didn’t have something to hold onto. “You said… you said you were one of the Host!”

Michael seemed mildly surprised by Rush’s accusatory tone. “Well, I am.”

“You’re the _commander_!”

One corner of Michael’s mouth twisted into a lopsided smile that hinted at bitterness. “Don’t hold it against me.”

Rush swallowed hard. Oh, he had done it now. _Stupid._ He should have played this differently from the start. He should have been polite and helpful and everything that a good servant ought to be, and he should have buried his pride and insubordination deep down in the darkest recesses of his psyche where they belonged. He should have worked hard to prove to this soldier - whom he had always recognized as someone of importance - that he had taken his first lesson to heart and that he was now a model of submission and humility. That would have been the smart thing to do. But Rush, who had always been clever in many ways, knew himself to be somewhat lacking in good judgment when it came to his interactions with other people. And now Michael would probably make some comment to Sopheriel about his mouthy little scribe, and there would be hell to pay. Sopheriel would punish any offense given to an archangel tenfold.

“I--” he started, then immediately broke off, not sure of what he wanted to say. Was it too late to be conciliating now?

Michael dismissed Rush’s unspoken sentiments with a wave of his hand. “Please, don’t.”

“If I had known--”

“You think I owed it to you to state my identity from the beginning? This from the angel with no name?” Michael interrupted, looking amused.

“Well,” said Rush frankly, “not knowing who I am has no ramifications for anyone.”

“Whereas an unguarded word to me could get someone in trouble.”

“Yes.”

Michael ducked his head and smiled ruefully at the desktop. “That must rankle.”

“You have no idea,” Rush said through gritted teeth.

“You really think it’s a lot easier from this end?”

“I somehow doubt that whipping is involved for you.”

“The battles I’ve fought outnumber the days you’ve lived, Fledgling,” Michael replied quietly. “I would prefer the whippings, I think.”

Maybe he would, at that. Maybe fighting and killing got old after a while, just like any other repetitive task. And maybe he had suffered many wounds through the ages which were much worse than the handful of beatings Rush had endured. But it wasn’t really about the beatings, anyway. It was the lifestyle of servitude. The lack of ownership over oneself. The sense of being a cog in someone else’s machine, not the one who turns the crank. The stifling sameness of each unfulfilling day, one after another after another, with no hope of advancement. The inescapable feeling that one had been made for more than this.

Michael was an archangel. His power, both physical and political, was almost unmatched. The purpose for which he had been created was glorious. Thousands of soldiers followed his commands. He had won wars and saved realms from invasion. Minstrels sang about his achievements in the marketplace. Countless lines of poetry had been written about him. He was the epitome of success. He could not really be expected to understand what life was like for a servant.

While Rush brooded, he watched Michael’s eyes rove in an abstracted manner over the various objects cluttering the desk, until they finally settled upon a wooden box-like device sitting in one corner. The box was entirely nondescript except for a pair of metal arms that emerged from one side. The arms held a pen, the nib of which hovered just above the desktop. There was a knob on one side of the box. A little furrow appeared between Michael’s brows, and he stretched out his hand toward it.

“It’s not ready yet,” Rush said.

Michael froze with his hand hovering in midair and lifted his eyes to fix him with an inquiring look.

Rush removed the pen, dipped it in an inkwell, and replaced it. Then he slid a clean sheet of parchment under it. “All right, now you can turn it.”

Turning the knob produced the whirring, clanking sound of gears moving within the box. The metal arms lurched into motion, and the pen slid fluidly over the parchment.

“Is that a name?” Michael asked, watching the progress of the pen across the page. When it stood idle once more, he tugged the sheet of parchment free and examined it carefully. It now contained an intricate, looping signature. “Sopheriel,” he read aloud, and then chuckled softly. “That certainly looks like his handwriting. This is fantastic. Did you design it?”

“Yes,” Rush said, unable to squelch a small flicker of pleasure at the compliment. “I needed it in order to conduct his business when he is away, as he often is.”

“That’s the life of a Herald for you,” Michael said, setting the parchment down and gazing around the small workroom with new interest. His eyes flitted from one gadget to another, some of which were in working order, some half-finished, and some mere mock-ups of contraptions that Rush hoped later to perfect. “You designed all of these?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wasted as a scribe.”

“I know.”

That drew another chuckle from Michael. Then his attention was caught by a clock on the far wall, and he went to examine it more closely. It was actually three different clock faces in a row, all set within the same carved wooden frame. They told the current time in three different realms, none of which Rush had ever personally visited. But Michael had. He must have, for he seemed to know exactly what he was looking at.

“You are fortunate that Sopheriel gives you so much freedom to pursue your own interests,” he murmured, running a finger along the outer edge of the frame.

“I know that, too,” Rush said.

“Do you like working for him?”

Oh, there was an obvious trap. Rush wasn’t stupid enough to fall into it. “He’s a good master, very fair. One of the best I’ve had. I have no cause for complaint.”

Michael turned to face Rush and offered him a wry smile. “Well done. That was both true and entirely disingenuous at the same time. Want to try again?”

Rush pressed his lips together, confused and stubborn.

Michael’s smile turned softer, more understanding. “It won’t leave this room. I promise you that.”

Rush wetted his lips with his tongue and fidgeted slightly, still unconvinced. He had that storm-tossed feeling again, like the wind was blowing him every which way, disarranging his feathers and leaving him powerless to choose his own course. What was an archangel’s promise worth? A great deal, he thought, but he wasn’t sure. A solemn oath would be better.

“Your sword,” he said.

“What?”

“Swear it upon your sword.”

The momentary look of confusion fled from Michael’s features at that. He grew serious in an instant, appearing to consider the request carefully before nodding.

He set his right palm over the pommel of his sword. From what Rush could see of the hilt, it appeared to be a very simple weapon - oddly so for one carried by the commander of an army. Yet when Michael touched it, it seemed to come alive. The once-dull metal began to glow and ripple as if molten, and several curling tongues of flame licked out from within the scabbard. Energy pulsed and flowed around the sword and its bearer, bringing with it a strong awareness of latent power so potent that it had been known to fell whole battalions singlehandedly. The air in the small room was thick with tension, and Rush’s skin prickled uncomfortably with it.

The spinning circlet of fire above Michael’s head exploded with heat and brilliance as if it had been doused with ethanol. His wings shone so brightly that they, too, seemed to be burning. He was simultaneously radiant and horrifying, and Rush was torn between contradictory impulses to run and to draw closer to that golden inferno.

“I swear it,” Michael said, his voice reverberating within the small chamber, and Rush believed him.

When Michael removed his hand from his weapon, that terrifying energy dissipated immediately. The sword went back to looking like any sword, and he went back to looking… well, like a high-ranking member of the Host, certainly, but not quite so much like the Sovereign’s holy executioner.

Rush cleared his throat and tried to look unaffected by what had just happened. He didn’t think he quite pulled it off.

“So. Your thoughts on Sopheriel,” Michael prompted.

Right.

“Well, it’s as you said,” Rush said, and was pleased to find his voice quite steady in spite of his lingering discomfort, “I’m wasted here. I’ve learned a lot under Sopheriel, but I’ve outgrown him.”

“He’s your master, not your tutor.”

Rush shrugged, failing to see the relevance of that point. Surely one could outgrow masters as well as tutors. Otherwise, how did one explain that each of Rush’s new masters had held a higher rank than the last? As his knowledge and skills advanced, so did the importance of his position, and of his work. Some of the work he did for Sopheriel was still amusing, but he was ready for something more challenging. He had so much more to offer.

“You know,” Michael said slowly, and Rush sensed that he was coming to the point of this conversation at last, “Sopheriel would release you into my service if I asked him to.”

Rush frowned. “I’ve no doubt,” he murmured, both intrigued and baffled by this idea. “Sopheriel would give an archangel anything they wished - most people would. But why would you want that?”

Michael strolled back toward the desk, and Rush had to tamp down on an instinct to move a few steps away. Somehow, the Host commander had become a little more intimidating in the last few minutes. Also, Rush hated having to crane his neck to look up at him. They already stood on such uneven ground in a figurative sense that it seemed excessive to make the disparity literal.

“I told you why.”

“My ‘refreshing attitude’ and ‘unique perspective?’” Rush quoted, only managing to keep his disdain out of his tone because his confusion was even stronger. “What would my duties consist of?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Now Rush just felt insulted. “You don’t even know my skill set.”

Michael glanced around the room again, taking in Rush’s various projects with a speculative gleam in his eye. “I like what I see.”

“What possible use could you have for a tinkerer?”

Michael’s gaze snapped back to him. “I have outposts in every realm, and I make regular visits to all of them,” he said, and some of the mildness had left his tone. He sounded business-like, even brusque. “I don’t always know what I’m going to need once I get there, or what information will be critical. I have to be able to adapt quickly. What use do I have for an innovator, a mapmaker, a clocksmith, a man of learning? I can think of any number of things.”

He paused, smiling wryly at Rush’s expression, which must have revealed something of his surprise. “You thought my job consisted only of fighting, didn’t you?”

Rush blinked. “The songs and tales--” he began, then broke off, feeling foolish. Of course the songs sung in Michael’s honor only referenced his bravery on the battlefield. Of course the tales told about him only focused on his most glorious victories. That was what the average person found exciting and noteworthy, but that was never the whole story.

“Not every fight is ours to take part in,” said Michael. “Most of the time, we just monitor the wars of other races from a distance. The Sovereign decides when or if we intervene. My job is to be ready, and to make sure my people are cared for.”

Rush absorbed this in silence for a few minutes. Then his mind went back to one small detail from Michael’s explanation. “Did you say… _every_ realm?”

Michael seemed to relax at that, and his smile turned more amused and less pessimistic. “Yes. Any in particular you want to see?”

“ _All_ of them.”

Michael chuckled. “You will, eventually.”

 _But as a servant_ , Rush thought. _Not with the freedom to explore and learn as I wish to._ Still, wasn’t that better than sitting here stagnating for the rest of eternity? This was an opportunity he had never known to hope for. And if part of him still ached for the right to make decisions for himself without reference to anyone else, couldn’t he soothe that ache with a constant stream of new sights and projects and data?

But on the other hand, did he really want to work for an archangel? It was a prestigious position, but he didn’t care for that. The enormous gap between his station and Michael’s gave him pause. He had never felt cowed by any of his masters before, and he didn’t want to start now. And while there was something very approachable about Michael, and while he spoke to Rush almost as an equal, Rush could imagine losing himself in his awe and fear for the creature who had unleashed that buzzing, blinding energy just a few minutes earlier. He was both repulsed and impressed by his own reaction to that display of power, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to feel that way again.

“May I have time to think about it?” he asked. “Or do I have a say in it at all?”

“Of course you have a say,” Michael said, as if he couldn’t imagine how Rush could think otherwise. As if he didn’t realize how rare it was for Rush to be given a choice in anything. “I’ll be realm-hopping for the next week, but then I’ll return. Is that enough time?”

“Yes,” Rush said gratefully.

Michael smiled again. This time, it was a hopeful sort of expression, and Rush found it almost  endearing.

“I’ll see you in a week, then.”


	3. Heresy

Young was awake.

That knowledge shouldn’t unfurl within Rush’s mind like a half-withered flower restored to new life by gentle rainfall. It shouldn’t ease some of the tension of his neck or still some of the jitteriness in his limbs. It shouldn’t matter at all, in fact, but it did. All at once, he felt a little less like the lone adult in a ship full of alien children. He had a flock-mate nearby, and that was a strange yet undeniable comfort.

Rush was dimly aware of Lieutenant Johansen hovering impatiently behind him as he discussed the gateroom’s failed life support node with Lieutenant Scott. A moment ago he had cut her off as she delivered Young’s message, but he had heard her nonetheless. Young wanted to see him ‘right away.’ And while Rush had little time to spare at the moment, he couldn’t deny that a nagging part of him wanted to see Young too.

“Lieutenant,” Rush said into his radio, “I’m coming to have a look at that node myself. In the meantime, you should open up one of the operational units to see how badly corroded it is by comparison.”

“You mean one of the few nodes that’s still giving us air to breathe? You sure you want to mess with those?” Scott’s voice came through. Rush could hear Greer muttering something in the background.

“Just a quick peek, Lieutenant. We’re going to have to fix all of them soon, so we should know how extensive the damage is. Rush out.”

Rush set aside his radio and turned to face Johansen. She looked pale and worn and heartsick, but there was a determined glint in her eyes and a steadiness in her posture which proclaimed that she had many hours of fight left in her. Rush was glad to see it - he suspected that she’d need them.

“Colonel Young wants--” Johansen began again.

“To see me,” Rush interrupted. “I heard. I can give him three minutes.”

 

* * *

 

Rush had second thoughts once he was actually standing in the room with Young. The colonel was on his back in bed with a blanket pulled over his legs, looking somehow smaller and older than he had earlier in the day, and for some reason, that made Rush think of stark walls and hospital beds and the cloying scents of antiseptic soap and rubbing alcohol. It made him think of endings.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked sharply.

Young’s eyes had been closed, but now he opened them and turned his head on the pillow to look at Rush. His lips quirked into a sardonic, pained little smile. “Hell of a headache, and I can’t feel my legs. I half expected you to blow me off.”

“Yes, well I can’t stay long,” Rush said brusquely. “What’s this about your legs?”

“I think it’s neuropraxia,” Johansen said from beside him, startling Rush. He hadn’t even realized that she had followed him into the room. “Which would mean it’s temporary.”

“Of course it’s temporary,” He said impatiently.

Johansen shot him an unamused look. “Yes, hopefully. There’s no way of knowing--”

“Lieutenant,” Young cut in mildly, “could you step out into the hall for a moment?”

Johansen hesitated for a split second before nodding crisply. “Yes, sir,” she said, and left.

Rush hit the door control after her and turned back toward the bed. He and Young regarded each other for a few moments in uncomfortable silence, until Young finally stirred, rolled his shoulders against the bedding and heaved a sigh.

“I’ll heal from this?”

“From anything,” Rush replied. “Only the Sovereign can do you permanent harm.”

“The Sovereign?” Young asked, lifting a brow in inquiry.

“Our creator.”

Young grunted, nodding. He wriggled again, but whether he did so due to impatience, or pain, or that maddening itch that comes with healing, it wasn’t clear. Whatever the cause, Rush could sympathize. He had suffered a few catastrophic injuries himself, and although they had always healed, the recovery process was never exactly _enjoyable_.

“TJ says there’s something wrong with the life support?” Young said.

“Several things, probably. I was just on my way to investigate one of them.”

Young’s unruly brows drew together in a pinched expression. “We need get these people home, Rush.”

Rush wasn’t sure why he felt a pang of disappointment at that. It was exactly what everyone else had been saying to him all day, so why should the colonel be any different? Never mind that he had started to take more interest in the mission lately. Never mind that, only a month ago, he had put out feelers to see if there was any way he could be added to the away team as Telford’s second in command. That had been a dead end, but the joke was on Homeworld Command now, wasn’t it? Young was here, and Telford wasn’t, and that was the best of all possible worlds as far as Rush was concerned.

But there was little point in arguing with Young now, and Rush didn’t have the time anyway. So he smiled faintly and nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring rather than a dismissive manner. “There will be time for that once the life support system is functioning. As it stands, we don’t have long, so that needs to be our priority. In fact, I’d--”

“Better go back to work,” Young finished for him, squirming and looking extremely discontent with his enforced inactivity. “I get it. Take TJ with you so she can report back.”

Rush ducked his head in a quick nod, grateful not to have a useless and time-consuming argument on his hands. He was almost to the door when Young called him back.

“Just one thing, Rush,” Young said in that low, quiet voice that somehow still resonated across the room, “our _first_ priority is these people. You’ve already dragged them halfway across the universe to satisfy your curiosity--”

“Not my curiosity,” Rush interjected. “My calling.”

Young closed his eyes and rubbed at them with his palm. “Okay, your _calling_.” He let his hand drop. “ _My_ calling is to protect them. We’re going to do what’s in their best interest from now on, got it?”

“Well,” murmured Rush with more patience than he felt the subject deserved, “we all need to breathe, so why don’t we start there?”

 

* * *

 

Michael returned as promised after one week.

Rush was at work in a small reading room attached to Sopheriel’s library when the archangel arrived. Rush loved this room, and since he had come to work for Sopheriel it had, at least unofficially, become his own private study. A bank of windows along one wall provided plenty of light. Two of the remaining walls were lined with overstuffed bookshelves, and the last was decorated with four framed etchings. Three tables occupied the center of the room, all of which were currently strewn with books and papers. The clutter was comforting to Rush, who knew the location of every book and document and scrap of paper in the room. It was the closest thing to home that he had found since his awakening.

Rush felt Michael’s presence like a sudden breath of wind on the back of his neck and lifted his head expectantly. The archangel stood in the doorway, majestic and golden in the streaming sunlight from the windows, making the little room feel both significantly brighter and smaller than before.

“Do you do that on purpose?” Rush asked, setting down his pen and rising from his stool.

Michael padded into the room and smiled vaguely in response to Rush’s question. But his eyes were troubled, as though he were preoccupied with other cares. The exhaustion that Rush had noticed during his last visit was even more evident now. Dazzling as he was, Michael looked like he could use a nap. Or a few centuries of vacation time.

“Do what?” he asked absently.

“Blind people whenever you step into a room.”

That drew a laugh from Michael, and some of the lines of worry around his eyes eased. He looked mildly pleased, but also somewhat embarrassed. “No. Should I draw the curtains?”

 _‘Should I?’_ Not, _‘you should.’_ Rush basked for a moment in the novel feeling of being asked what he wanted as opposed to being told what to do. Then he shook his head. “I think I’m getting used to it.”

Michael’s smile broadened. “That’s good,” he said softly. “That’s very good. Have you--”

He broke off suddenly, catching sight of the huge black and silver tome that Rush had been writing in a moment before. Carmine ink shone on the white pages, freshly dried. Michael’s smile flickered out. “That’s the _Book of the Dead_ ,” he said in a completely flat voice, staring at the book so hard that Rush half expected it to go up in flames.

“Mm, yes,” Rush confirmed.

“Sopheriel lets you enter names into the _Book of the Dead_.”

“Requires it, actually,” Rush said. “He claims he doesn’t have time to record them all himself.”

Rush watched as Michael pulled out a stool from the nearest table and sank onto it with deliberate calm. The look of restraint on his features was almost painful to witness. Rush had no idea what emotions roiled beneath that still surface, but that Michael was feeling _something_ was evident. Did the archangel think that a scribe shouldn’t be tasked with so important a duty? Did he think Rush was incompetent? They were off to a bad start if that were the case. How did Michael expect Rush to serve him if he didn’t even trust him to transcribe a few names into a damned book?

But Rush’s rising irritation was instantly checked by Michael’s next question. “How many names for three days ago?”

Rush blinked in surprised. “For which realm?”

“Ilsaira.”

Rush frowned and pondered Michael’s blank expression before checking his notes. “Approximately twenty-three thousand,” he said.

Michael closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged, and Rush could have sworn that even the light reflected by his golden plumage dimmed.

“Were you there?” Rush asked.

“Not then,” Michael murmured without opening his eyes. “The day before. I had orders to withdraw my forces. ‘Not our fight.’”

Rush stared helplessly at him, confused and vaguely distressed by the grief that was rolling off of him in waves. Rush had never known grief before. He’d never seen anyone mourn, never thought of the tears shed for all the names he entered into this book. Death was for other races; there was no reason why it should touch him. But Michael must be well acquainted with it. Perhaps his allies died on the battlefield as often as his enemies. Perhaps he had frequent occasion to grieve.

“Twenty-three thousand,” Michael said, drawing Rush out of his reverie. “That’s the last of them. That’s the remnants of a proud race wiped out in a day.”

“I’m… sorry,” Rush said awkwardly, wondering if he should go to Michael’s side… and do what? Comfort him? How? He had no idea, so he stayed where he was.

Michael rubbed at his closed eyes and then blinked them open. They looked a little red, but there were no visible tears on his face. “The Sovereign had their reasons,” he said gruffly. “Not my place to question.”

And that was when Rush realized that Michael was a servant too. He, too, was bound by his duty to his Master, and he lacked the freedom to rely upon his own judgment when making critical decisions. He had a watcher, a keeper, a taskmaster, just as Rush did. He was a prince, a mighty commander, and an archangel, and yet he was powerless to do and be everything that he wished.

The revelation hit Rush like a cyclone, spinning him round and round until he didn’t know where he was any longer, or where he belonged. Not here, that was certain. Not within this society where true freedom was a myth and everyone was expected to follow their preordained path without question, and without growth. Where even the most powerful angels were still not granted the right to think for themselves.

“You _should_ question it,” Rush blurted out, because that was the only coherent thought in his mind. _Question everything._

Michael tilted his head to one side and eyed Rush with a weary sort of thoughtfulness. “I should demand answers from the One Who Begins All Things?”

“Who better to ask?”

Michael sighed and cracked a tired smile. “That’s not how it works, Fledgling.”

Of course not, because masters had no obligation to answer the questions of their servants. Knowledge was power, and dispensing it too freely just closed the distance between the high-flyers and the ground-dwellers. The Sovereign must know this as well as anyone.

Rush swallowed hard against a strangling surge of anger mingled with despair and let his gaze drop to the red names scrawled in his spidery handwriting across the stark white pages of the _Book of the Dead_. He trailed a thumb over the dried ink, half-expecting it to smear like fresh blood across the page at his touch. Then he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, wiping away the phantom stickiness, and lifted his eyes to Michael’s face.

“I can’t serve you,” he said resolutely.

Michael’s expression was difficult to read, but Rush thought he spotted a flicker of disappointment in those calm eyes. “Why not?”

“Because,” Rush murmured, “you’re as trapped as I am. You’re not free, and you can’t teach me anything when your work consists of following orders.”

Michael flinched visibly at that, and Rush hurried to amend what he belatedly realized had been a harsh comment. “I’m not suggesting that it’s your fault. You’re a product of your society.”

“And what does that make you, then?” Michael asked dryly.

“I’m not sure,” Rush admitted. “Not meant for this, though.”

Michael appeared to mull over that for a few minutes. As his eyes grew distant, his discomfort became gradually more apparent in the deepening of the lines about his eyes and across his forehead. When he eventually emerged from his reflections, he heaved a soft, regretful sigh.

“You said on your first day that service is not your function,” he said. “Do you still believe that?”

“I know it,” Rush said simply.

“You’ve never doubted it?”

“No.”

Michael’s lips curved into a grim smile. “I envy you that. I never used to doubt mine, but recently…” He let his voice trail off and shook himself as if to brush away the last few unspoken words. He rose from his stool, suddenly exhibiting a restlessness Rush had not seen in him before, and began to pace the room.

“I don’t see why a person’s function couldn’t evolve over time,” Rush said as he followed the archangel’s progress through the small reading room with his eyes. “Surely we can’t all be expected to do the same thing for eternity. I know you had a predecessor, so there’s no reason you couldn’t have a successor.”

Michael laughed mirthlessly. “Is that supposed to be comforting? My predecessor went mad, tried to stage a coup, and then fell to Earth.”

Well, there was that.

“I only meant--”

“I know,” Michael interrupted, waving a hand in Rush’s general direction without breaking his stride. “You’re a radical thinker, Fledgling. I don’t know if that makes you something special, or a born heretic, but I can appreciate it either way.”

Rush didn’t much care at this point which of those descriptions was applicable to him. Both, probably. The one advantage to being a servant was that he was of low enough importance in society that his unconventional views didn’t get him into very much trouble, so long as he followed his master’s orders. Archangels could not afford to let their thinking stray in the same manner, but then, Rush had never supposed that they needed to. He hadn’t thought about the restrictions place upon them, or the fact that each of them was created for a set purpose and therefore not truly free. While they were contented with their lot, all was well, but if they began to have doubts…

“Who made these?”

Michael’s voice cut through Rush’s train of thought and refocused his wandering attention upon the archangel. Having apparently taken a break from his pacing, Michael was now standing before one of the etchings on the wall and examining it with a mixture of appreciation, wonder, and confusion on his face.

Curious to know what specifically had caught Michael’s attention about the picture, Rush joined him. Together they gazed at the desert scene, with its three hazy, pyramid-shaped structures looming in the background. It was not Rush’s favorite of the four etchings, but it never failed to fill him with a vague sense of longing whenever he looked at it.

“They’re just dreamscapes,” Rush said, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to downplay his own creations, for once.

“ _You_ did this?”

 _He needn’t sound so shocked about it_ , Rush thought irritably. Michael had already seen his inventions, which in Rush’s opinion were far more impressive. A few basic etchings should not be considered a strain upon his ingenuity. “Yes.”

Michael’s eyes remained fixed on the image before him as if he was seeing far more than the simple etching depicted. “I’ve been here,” he murmured.

Rush turned and studied Michael’s rapt face uncertainly, wondering if he’d heard him correctly. “It isn’t real.”

“What?” Michael finally tore his eyes away from the picture to stare at Rush in bewilderment. “Yes, it is. It’s Giza, in Egypt.”

Rush blinked at him.

“On Earth?” Michael prompted.

Rush shook his head slowly. He had never heard of Giza, or Egypt for that matter. But then, his knowledge of Earth was limited. An unaccountable gap in his education that he probably ought to remedy, judging by Michael’s expression.

Then Michael spotted the second etching and he strode to it, leaving Rush staring after him.

“This quad here,” he said, jabbing his finger at the image of a vast stretch of turf surrounded by buildings, “That’s in Oxford, England.”

Rush licked his lips uncomfortably and trailed after the archangel. “Also on Earth?”

“Yes. And this,” he continued on, leaving Rush only moments to look with new, perplexed eyes at the ‘quad’ before drawing his attention to the next picture, “is a view of the _Bahia de San Francisco_. I’ve stood on this very spot and watched the sun sink into the water.” Michael trailed his fingers almost reverently along the edge of the frame.

“And that’s in…?”

“California,” Michael answered absently. Then, after a pause, he turned to meet Rush’s eyes. “Yes, also on Earth.”

Rush held Michael’s gaze for a few moments, searching for answers, but finding only his own questions reflected back at him. So he turned to peer at the ocean scene, trying to remember the dream that had inspired it. But it had been decades ago, and he’d forgotten most of the details. He just remembered liking this view and wanting to reproduce it. It had looked like a haven. Not a home, exactly, but a resting place.

Had he really been dreaming of Earth for years? A realm he’d never been to, never even thought much about? Why? Earth was a playground for fallen angels, and in past ages it had been a favorite battleground for wars waged between various realms. But it wasn’t _interesting_. It was just Earth.

Or so he had always thought.

Slowly, Rush turned toward the last etching. Michael seemed to notice it at the same time, and they approached it together. It was the only indoor scene of the four, and it was very stark and minimalist in comparison to the others. The only thing in the picture was a door crafted out of a dim gray metal. It bore a pattern of shapes that vaguely resembled the gears and other inner workings of Rush’s mechanical creations. There were lights set into the door - many glowing, dash-like lines and one bright circle.

Rush could never look at this etching without experiencing an intense wave of eagerness, frustration, and yearning. If the place it depicted was real and not just some dreamworld fashioned from his own interests and desires, then he _had_ to go there. That door called to him.

“I… don’t recognize this,” Michael said.

Rush sighed softly. No, of course not. That would have been too much to ask. The most important things were always out of his reach. He nursed his disappointment in silence, but Michael soon picked up on it.

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Michael said gently. “I haven’t been everywhere. It’s important to you?”

Rush swallowed and nodded slowly. “But I don’t know why.”

Michael rubbed his hand over his mouth thoughtfully, then took several long strides toward the center of the room in order to contemplate all four etchings at once. Rush followed, feeling lost and not even caring that he resembled an eager servant moving obsequiously in his master’s wake. He was too overwhelmed with confusion to worry about preserving his own tenuous dignity. Michael, too, seemed confused, but in a different way. He was clearly thinking, analyzing, drawing conclusions based on his billions of years of experience, and Rush was eager to know what those conclusions would be.

He wasn’t expecting Michael’s next question.

“Have you ever thought of going to Earth?”

Rush tipped his head back to examine Michael’s face, half-expecting to find a glint of semi-malicious humor in those warm amber eyes, but the archangel’s expression was entirely serious. He seemed to genuinely expect an answer to his question, absurd as it sounded.

“Earth is for the fallen,” Rush reminded him.

Michael did begin to look amused at that. “This might come as a shock to you, Fledgling, but Earth is mostly for humans.”

“Well, yes, of course. Them too.”

Michael ducked his head and chuckled softly.

Rush watched him uncomfortably, wondering if he was being mocked. This conversation had taken such a strange turn that he couldn’t be sure. “I… no, I can’t say I’ve ever thought of going to Earth.”

“I guess not.” Michael smiled wryly. “You know, the reason we send the fallen there is because it’s so easy to disguise ourselves as humans.”

“And why would I want to do that if I’m not being punished?”

“Because,” Michael said simply, “you want to be free.”

Rush perked up at that, finally taking interest in the subject. “Are humans free?” He asked eagerly.

“Not all of them, in a literal sense,” Michael replied, “but they do have something called ‘free will.’ They aren’t made for a specific purpose, as we are. They have some degree of self-determination, whereas we must do the jobs we’re designed for. Most angels pity them for that, but I suspect you would envy them.”

“Yes,” Rush said, trying to imagine what it would be like to awaken without any internal sense of purpose at all. To be a clean slate, able to take whatever path one wished. What a terrifying thought, but an exhilarating one too. Not that Rush had ever minded his own true purpose - to be designed for exploration and discovery was exhilarating too. But somehow, by some terrible fluke, he had been assigned to a job that did not correspond to what his heart told him he was meant for. Maybe humans didn’t have to worry about that sort of thing. Maybe they were all happy in their work because they had chosen it for themselves.

But what would _he_ do on Earth? Would he be able to take advantage of the same opportunities afforded to humans? Would there be enough to keep him occupied for the many millennia he would presumably spend there?

“Earth is larger than our realm, isn’t it?” he asked.

Michael grinned as if Rush had just said something particularly amusing. “Oh, yes. Many times larger than our realm. You would not easily become bored. But I don’t think you really understand.”

Rush lifted his brows expectantly.

“It’s not just Earth. That realm is large enough to contain an entire universe.”

Rush frowned at that. “What’s a universe?”

MIchael laughed. All traces of sorrow had been wiped from his features, and now he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to introduce Rush to concepts he had never considered before. He looked like a generous master, terribly pleased with himself for the treat that he was about to bestow upon his servant, and while that might have rankled had he been any other angel, Rush didn’t really mind it coming from Michael. The pleasure in the archangel’s eyes was so genuine, and it was such a nice contrast to that wooden mask of pain that he had worn earlier.

“A universe is something so old and vast and glorious that it renders a single planet like Earth completely insignificant,” Michael said. “It’s so massive that it would take more years than I have lived to explore every inch of it. It’s filled with fire and darkness and cold and beauty like you’ve never seen before. It feels endless. And the many, many species who live there haven’t even begun to understand the wonders that surround them.”

Rush was so startled by this improbable description that he actually swayed under its impact. A large, warm hand gripped his shoulder to steady him, and he leaned into it without thinking. He was too grateful for that single tether as his world realigned itself around him to care that the touch had been uninvited.

“I… I want to go to Earth,” he said as soon as he could find his voice. “I _need_ to.”

“I thought you might,” Michael murmured, giving his shoulder a light squeeze before he withdrew his hand.

“But how can I?” Rush asked, suddenly fretful over the practical barriers in the way of his new, burning ambition. “I can’t leave my master. I’d be caught at the gates and returned to him.”

“There is a backdoor to Earth from our realm,” Michael assured him. “I’ll escort you there. And I’ll settle things with Sopheriel. As you said before, he’s unlikely to deny me anything I ask for.”

Rush sucked in a breath. He found himself wishing for the reassuring weight of Michael’s hand on his shoulder again, since he felt like he might fall or fly or spin away at any moment. “I don’t--” he began, then faltered. He licked his lips and tried again. “Why would you do that?”

Michael’s hands were clasped tightly in front of him, as if he was deliberately holding himself back from initiating any further contact. His eyes were thoughtful, perhaps even a bit wistful, but he was still smiling down at Rush. “I want to help you find your purpose. I think perhaps it’s a part of mine.”

Rush didn’t know what to say to that. He was too overwhelmed by all of the the new possibilities that had just opened up to him to find words to express his delight. It felt right. It felt _so_ much more right than anything that had happened to him since the day of his awakening.

“When do you want to go?” Michael asked.

“Is tomorrow too soon?”

Michael chuckled again and shook his head. “No, not at all. I’ll make it happen.”


	4. Flight

Rush followed Young out of the gate room, torn between his annoyance at the colonel’s abortive attempt to dial Earth (Young’s distrust of him must run deeper than he had realized) and his eagerness to explore the planet that Destiny had just dialed. He had known, he had just _known_ that there would be a way to fix the life support system. He hadn’t come all this way just to watch his dreams go cold in airless darkness. His purpose was here, and therefore he would find a way to carry it out. Lack of oxygen wouldn’t kill him, but it would be _damned_ uncomfortable, and it really wouldn’t do to lose the eighty-odd humans on board.

Now he just had to make sure that the mission to the planet succeeded.

“Colonel Young!”

Young kept walking, albeit at a pace that made it easy to catch up with him. His limp was pronounced, and pain was etched in jagged lines across his face.  “We’re not discussing the dialing attempt.”

“Another time,” Rush agreed. “But we _do_ need to discuss this team you mentioned.”

“I will of course consider your recommendations.”

“Excellent,” Rush said, “because I think I should go alone.”

Young stopped walking. He turned to fix Rush with a weary, unamused look. “You’re joking.”

Rush shook his head slowly and raised both hands, palms out, to ward off any argument until he could make his case. “I’ll be faster alone. I know what we need and how to look for it, and I can move more swiftly in the air than they can on foot.”

“Absolutely not,” Young said in a hard, flat voice. Before Rush could protest, he continued, “You’re asking me to break every rule in the book. This mission should be overseen by an SGC officer, and our resident geologist should be involved at the _very_ least.”

“I don’t need their help,” Rush said impatiently.

“It’s not about whether you need them,” Young growled, stepping closer so that they could carry on their conversation in lowered voices. He needn’t have bothered. The humans passing in the hallway appeared to be giving them a wide berth. “It’s about appearances. It’s about what I put in my report.”

“Be honest,” Rush hissed. “It’s about _trust_.”

“Bit of that, too, yeah,” Young agreed.

Rush sucked in a breath and let it out in a frustrated sigh. He raked at his hair, thinking the problem over, and then let his hand drop as a pleasant thought occurred to him. “So come with me.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Rush said, liking the idea more as he thought it over. “You and I, together. No one will question it if you go.”

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Young said, but he was beginning to look tempted.

“Come on,” Rush whispered, sensing a weakness and tearing into it with metaphorical claws. He stepped even closer, nearly touching Young’s chest and filling his field of vision. “It’s been a few weeks since we last flew together. A new planet. A new mission. You can’t resist that.”

The stern look in Young’s eyes had softened. He was now looking at Rush as one might at a naughty puppy who manages to be adorable in spite of its destructive tendencies. That lurking fondness, _that_ was how Rush was going to make this work. Young might not trust him, but he _liked_ him, possibly against his will, and that would carry them through the difficulties ahead of them.

“Come on,” Rush said again.

Young sighed and shook his head. “Even if I wanted to--”

“You _do_ want to.”

“--I’m not up to it right now.”

Rush echoed Young’s sigh. He couldn’t really argue with that. If Young could barely walk, he probably wouldn’t fly worth a damn. Certainly not well enough to keep up with Rush. “Fine. Assemble your team. I’ll just have to reveal my wings to them.”

He started to turn away, but a firm grip above his elbow stopped him short. He flinched violently at the touch.

“You will do no such thing,” Young muttered. “Are you insane?”

“Let go.”

“These people are already about to lynch you for bringing them here. What do you expect will happen if they find out you’re not human?”

Rush wrenched his arm out of Young’s grasp and shook himself like an angry cat. _Fuck._ He had to admit to himself that Young had a point. Lynching was one of the least painful things he had endured at the hands of mortals. They looked pretty harmless most of the time, but they could be surprisingly vicious. And inventive.

“All right,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Okay. I’ll keep the wings in reserve as a desperate measure. Give me that, at least. I’m _not_ coming back empty handed.”

Young eyed him in steady silence for the space of several seconds before conceding the point with a nod. “Okay. But _only_ as a desperate measure.”

Rush ducked his head in assent, feeling simultaneously bruised and reassured by the conversation. Reciprocity and negotiation, that was how this worked. He groomed Young’s wings, Young groomed his. He gave a little, Young gave a little, and back and forth again. They weren’t friends, but they were flock-mates, and that invisible tie twisted between them and held them as close as any vow. And maybe he should resent that involuntary pull toward another of his own kind, but he’d never had free will to begin with, so why start fighting fate now? This was Destiny, literally and figuratively, and he had always been its pawn.

“By the way, Colonel, I’m glad to see you on your feet again,” he said, putting their discussion to rest.

Young’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “Are you? Well, that’s good news.”

He walked away before Rush could think of a suitable response.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Rush was on his knees in front of the stargate, looking over the bandage he had just applied to Doctor Franklin’s gunshot wound. He was tired, thirsty, covered in sand, sunburned in places he didn’t even want to think about, and he was no closer to achieving the objective of their mission. Lieutenant Scott was somewhere out in that desert, probably lying prone in the sand by now, and here was Rush, right where he’d started from. That wouldn’t do at all.

“I’m going back for him,” Greer announced.

“Oh, that’s great,” Rush muttered. “Suicide.”

“I’m not leaving him out there.”

“I’ll go with you,” Eli spoke up. The boy had pluck, Rush had to give him that. Not much sense, but certainly pluck.

“No, no,” Greer said, “you’re just going to slow me down.”

“Look,” Rush said, realizing that it fell to him to be the voice of reason, as usual. Besides, this was a time for desperate measures if ever he’d seen one. “This man _has_ to get back to the ship. He needs medical attention. Greer, I think you should take him.”

“Yeah?” Greer said, unimpressed. “Why me?”

“Because you shot him.”

“You _told_ me to!”

Rush waved off that objection. “I’ll go after Lieutenant Scott.”

Greer stared incredulously at him. “Like _hell_ you will. Weren’t you the one who was too tired to go on?”

“A lie,” Rush said calmly. He rose to his feet and rubbed his palms together in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the sticky mixture of blood and sand coating them. “I suspected that Doctor Palmer and Doctor Franklin were going to attempt exactly what they _did_ attempt, and I wanted to be on hand to put a stop to it.”

Greer cursed under his breath and then said belligerently, “I am _not_ going back without the Lieutenant. _You_ take Franklin back to the ship.”

Rush suppressed a groan of annoyance. They didn’t have time for this. “Look,” he said, striding up to Greer and getting into his face. “I’m going to take that remote--”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Greer growled.

“--and then I’m going to start walking. You do what you want, but if you decide to go back to the ship, tell Colonel Young what I’m doing. I guarantee he’ll tell you that you did the right thing. Eli,” He turned toward the young man, who was currently staring at him as if he was insane, “the remote, please. You should return to the ship with Greer.”

“I really--” Eli began, taking a step back.

Rush didn’t wait for him to finish. He plucked the kino remote from his hands, sacrificing a bit of his remaining energy reserves to move with preternatural swiftness. He was immediately confronted with Greer’s gun, but he had been ready for that. He promptly brushed the gun aside and stepped in close, crowding Greer and making it impossible for him to get off a shot. Well, impossible unless Greer dropped the gun and reached for his sidearm, but that would allow Rush time to retrieve the fallen weapon and turn it on Greer. He had just demonstrated that he was fast enough to pull it off, and judging by the size of Greer’s eyes right now, he’d gotten the message.

Rush didn’t know what he looked like right now. _Hopefully_ he looked entirely human, but calling upon immortal traits had a way of shattering the disguise.

“Do you have faith, Sergeant?” he asked softly.

A pause, and then, “Yes.”

“Good. Exercise it now. I _will_ find Lieutenant Scott. You have my word on that, for what it’s worth. Please deliver my message to Colonel Young.”

Rush dialed the gate for them. Then he turned and walked away, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he might get shot in the back at any moment. The shot never came, fortunately. Bullet wounds had a way of spoiling one’s day, as Doctor Franklin had just discovered.

When he heard the gate shut down behind him, he turned back. Greer, Eli, and Doctor Franklin were gone. Rush let out a soft breath of relief and then yanked off his jacket and shirts. He dropped the former in the sand, stuffed the latter in his belt, and then he set his wings free.

 

* * *

 

His last conversation with Michael took place on a bridge spanning two worlds.

A warm breath of wind stirred Rush’s hair as he stood beside the archangel and stared toward the hazy shoreline at the far end of the bridge. Beneath them, a wide, dark river churned, and behind them, those jagged peaks that Rush had wanted to explore on his very first day rose like solemn giants against the sky. He gripped the wooden railing with one hand, and he couldn’t help wishing that Michael would take the other. This bridge was Rush’s path to another dimension, and while he was eager to start his new life there, he rather wished he didn’t have to walk into it alone.

“You know this is a one-way trip, right?” Michael asked quietly. “If you leave this land without the Sovereign’s blessing, you won’t be permitted to return.”

“I know.”

“You can change your mind now. We can turn back.”

“I’m _not_ turning back,” Rush said firmly. He was nervous, yes, but he wasn’t about to lose this opportunity.

Michael stirred and sighed softly. He had also been gazing at the horizon, but now as Rush glanced at him, he saw that Michael had shifted his focus to Rush instead.

“What?” Rush demanded. He had to crane his neck to look Michael in the eye, but he still attempted to wither the archangel with a scowl.

Michael’s lips twitched. “It’s nothing.”

“No. You brought me here, but now you seem to regret it. Why?”

“I just wanted…” Michael, began, and then he changed tact abruptly. “It’s going to be an adjustment.”

“I can handle it.”

“You’ll be cut off from the flock.”

“I’ll make do.”

“It’s going to be difficult. Earth is a different world. It’s harsher and dirtier and rougher, and mortals have a way of using their free will for no better purpose than to harm each other. You’ll have to learn to fight. You might have to learn to be cold, or hungry, or tired.”

“I _will_ ,” Rush insisted.

“You’ll have to learn how to watch your friends die.”

Rush blinked at him, then slowly shook his head. “Friends. That’s… never really been a problem for me.”

Michael’s expression grew somewhat strained. The concern in his eyes cracked like stained glass, showing a layer of quiet pain underneath. “Ah,” he murmured, “How farsighted of you.”

Oh, he’d said the wrong thing. Damn. He hadn’t _meant_ to remind Michael of his grief, but he hadn’t been thinking about the friends that the archangel had recently lost. He’d been thinking about the ‘friends’ that he himself had never possessed. Rush had only ever had books and numbers and machines for companionship. His peers had never interested him, and his betters had shown no interest in _him_.

“It’s not that I don’t want…” Rush started to explain, but he wasn’t sure how he wanted to end that sentence. Did he want friends? Was it possible to want something that he couldn’t quite imagine? “It’s just never been relevant,” he amended.

The tension on Michael’s face eased, and a moment later Rush felt the warmth of a large hand grasping his skinny bicep. Michael stepped closer. His lion-like eyes were fixed on Rush’s face, scanning and learning him. There was something terribly deliberate and searching in that gaze, but Rush didn’t feel threatened. He did wonder, just for a moment, if he was about to be kissed. Something in Michael’s eyes - a certain deepening of their tawny hue - seemed to indicate that he was thinking about it, and their close proximity made it a simple thing to accomplish.

Rush had never been kissed before. He wondered if he would mind it.

But Michael didn’t kiss him. He merely said, in a tone that rendered the words a promise, “I’ll visit you.”

Which, truth be told, was much more welcome to Rush than a kiss would have been. Relief, absurd but heartfelt, washed through him and set his last doubts to rest. He would go to Earth and start a new life, and Michael would visit him. Rush could endure anything if he had that single lifeline. No angel was truly self-sufficient, and he was, sadly, no exception to that rule, but he didn’t need to be surrounded by a whole flock. He would do fine with one.

The gloomy shoreline ahead suddenly looked brighter and more welcoming, and the waves under the bridge appeared less menacing. This was right. He was doing the right thing.

“I’ll look different, won’t I?” he asked.

“You’ll have a human disguise,” Michael confirmed. “It will come to you naturally when you reach Earth - don’t fight it. It will make it look like you’re aging as the mortals do. You’ll have to take on a new identity about every sixty years to keep up the charade, so plan for that.”

“But you’ll still find me?”

Michael’s smile was slow and sweet and earnest. “I will.”

“Okay,” Rush said, steeling himself. He fixed his eyes on that misty horizon once more, and felt only peace. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Godspeed,” Michael murmured.

Rush began to walk. One step in front of the other, with creaking wooden planks under his feet and a wind like a living creature rising out of nowhere to beat him back.  He pinned his wings tightly against his back and leaned into the gale, fighting for each step. The hush of the waves turned into a roar - the mist became a fog. The elements were like gatekeepers, trying to hold back an unauthorized intruder, but he was too stubborn for them. He kept walking, making slow but steady progress toward the opposite bank.

A sudden thought occurred to him, stopping him in his tracks. He turned back, and it might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn that the waves and wind instantly calmed.

“Something wrong?” Michael called to him. He still stood exactly where Rush had left him, obviously meaning to watch over him until he crossed the barrier between realms. He looked smaller at this distance, but no less shining and golden.

“Earth is a big place, right? Where should I go?” Rush asked.

He couldn’t see the subtle nuances of Michael’s expression, but he could see the white flash of his grin. “Try Britain. It’s recently gone through an industrial revolution, so you’ll fit right in, Fledgling.”

Industrial revolution? Rush didn’t know quite what that meant, but it sounded promising. He communicated his thanks with a nod and a wave.

Michael lifted his right hand in a solemn salute, and that was Rush’s last sight of him: a proud archangel, bidding him farewell with the same signal of respect he would have performed for one of his own rank.

Rush swallowed and blinked a few times before turning back into the wind.


	5. Mortality

Rush had never flown over a desert before, but it didn’t take him long to realize that it required a certain finesse. For one thing, the sun was absolutely blinding, and it reflected off the white sands with a dazzling glare that made it almost impossible to navigate in the air, let alone search for objects or persons on the ground. For another, the wind was not just wind. It carried with it thousands of tiny particles of sand that stung his skin and ravaged his feathers, leaving him stripped and raw. And if he’d thought he had sunburns before, they were nothing to the fire engulfing his entire upper body now.

And he wasn’t going to think about burning right now. He wasn’t going to follow that thread of memory into the past.

_Focus._

He’d always heard that Hell was a metaphor, not a real place, but he was pretty sure he’d found its real world counterpart. Had he really been so eager to visit this godforsaken planet? Fuck. He was never leaving Destiny again.

By the time he finally spotted a prostrate figure on a sand dune, he was on the verge of desperation. But there was Scott, and beside him was a black duffel which appeared to be packed full, so it was all right after all. Scott’s mission had been successful, and Rush had found him and the precious bag before their time had run out.

With luck, the boy had even survived.

Rush swooped down and hit the ground with a woosh of air and spray of sand. He approached Scott with his wings still stretched wide behind him. Scott stirred slightly as the shadow of those wings fell over him.  He lifted his head and blinked up at Rush for a long moment before whispering hoarsely, “Have you come to take me home?”

Rush’s lips twitched in amusement. “That’s right, soldier,” he murmured. “ _Home_.”

 

* * *

 

Earth wasn’t quite what Rush had been expecting.

He landed in Glasgow in 1845, and was immediately wonderstruck by the mortal city’s size and population. It was larger than any settlement he had ever seen, including the Sovereign’s own city. It was also, he realized, noisier and _much_ dirtier. As he made his way through the streets, he began to understand Michael’s warnings. These mortals were creative and resourceful, that much was true. Their inventions were cunning and their advancement was rapid. But they left their poor on the street. The lowest among them were treated worse than the cattle in Rush’s homeland. There was poverty and sickness and hunger everywhere. And as the damp chill of the air sank through his clothing, Rush realized that he was no better off than any of them. He had nowhere to go, and no one turn to for help. He spent his first night in a dank alley, curled into a ball for warmth.

The next morning, he saw his new face for the first time in a rain puddle. He was lean and hungry looking, with sharp bones and dark eyes and an tangle of brown hair. He touched his face, marveling that it was his. It already felt right to him. The soft, boyish creature he had been was gone. This new lad looked like someone he could identify with. Hungry, indeed, for many things.

He got a job in a textile mill and learned what it was to work until he thought his back would break. He lived in lodgings not fit for vermin and fell asleep each night to a lullaby of babies’ cries and wet, hacking coughs. He learned that his brain could atrophy when presented only with endless, menial employment. His teaming thoughts grew sluggish, and his unbendable will grew lax. He stagnated, living one day to the next, too tired for dreams and aspirations.

He worked, he ate, he slept, and then he did it all over again the next day. And Michael didn’t visit him.

Then one day, a mechanical failure put the engine powering the mill’s many looms out of commission. Rush came out of his boredom-induced trance long enough to take an interest, and by the time an engineer had arrived, he had already identified the problem and was well on his way to fixing it. When his employer learned about the incident, Rush was promptly promoted. After that, things got better.

The textile industry in Glasgow declined in the early 1860s, but by that time Rush had moved on. The city which he had already begun to think of ashis own was becoming a world leader in the manufacture of locomotives and ships, and Rush was right in the thick of things. He was no longer merely tasked fixing and maintaining the inventions of others - he was designing his own, and enjoying himself immensely at it.

The world was in continuous flux around him. New ideas and opportunities seemed to fall like raindrops from the gray skies, and all he had to do was open his mouth and catch them on his tongue. He had comfortable lodgings, and hunger was a thing of the past. His work was demanding, but he never minded that. He was happy.

But Michael didn’t visit him.

By the time he finally retired (much later than he should have - he had been having far too much fun to worry about slowing down in his “old age”), he had amassed enough of a nest egg to keep himself quite comfortable for as long as he wished, and to have something left over for his next persona to start on. In his will he conveniently left his belongings to a fictitious great nephew. Then, when he was ready for a new start, he arranged a very nice funeral for himself and was next heard from in 1910 as the aforementioned great nephew.

He had great plans for this lifetime. He’d enjoyed being a mechanical engineer and an inventor, but now he wanted to focus on pure mathematics. Numbers appeared to hold the answers to all the secrets of this universe, and if he was to fulfill his purpose, he must have the tools with which to crack those secrets wide open. He had youth and time and funds on his hands, and he was past due for a comprehensive education.

But this realm was a fickle place, and it had a way of ruining well-laid plans. Rush was at university in August of 1914 when Britain declared war on Germany. By September, most of his friends - for he had, at last, stumbled into a few close friendships with like-minded students - had joined the army. Rush found himself thinking of Michael. He thought of ‘not our fight’ and of the archangel’s terrible sadness. He thought of golden wings and flaming swords and the sort of honor that no servant could ever hope to achieve. He went to war.

Rush had wanted an education, and he soon got his wish. He learned many things very quickly. He learned that a man in uniform was a statistic, not a person. He learned that the people in charge had no concept of what the _hell_ they were doing. He learned a gruesome new application for the word “attrition.” He learned to nod at Death as it marched across no man’s land, knowing that it had not come for him. He learned what it felt like to be alone again after finally tasting friendship.

He learned to ignore the smell of death and sickness all around him. He learned to run through mud that sucked at his boots like a living thing. He learned to distinguish between the distant screams of men and horses.

He learned what it felt like to shut down. To stare blankly at the walls in a crowded hospital and hear nothing and see nothing and say nothing and _be_ nothing. He learned what it felt like to be screamed at, to be called a coward. It felt like nothing.

And Michael didn’t visit him.

Then he was back in the trenches with a weapon in his hands and a new crop of cannon fodder all around him. He knew better than to make friends with any of them. They were walking corpses, full of nationalistic fervor, little candle flames that would wink out with the first foul breath of wind. And he felt like an ill omen standing in their midst, deadened but incapable of death.

A legend soon grew up around him. He had never fallen sick, never suffered even from trench foot. He had survived wounds no man should survive, and healed so rapidly that the medics and nurses became nervous around him. His fellow soldiers started saying that he was invincible. The most fanciful among them said he’d made a deal with the devil. Rush was too blank to be amused.

In 1917 during the Battle of Passchendaele, Rush received the injury that finally took him out of the war. That was when he learned what it felt like to burn alive. Mustard gas, they called it. Sulfur mustard, more accurately. Just further evidence of human ingenuity… and human cruelty.

This time, he didn’t just stare at the walls - he _screamed_ at them. The barest touch upon his skin was too much. Every inch of his flesh was blistered over and his eyes were blinded. Even the insides of his lungs burned with endless fire. He should be dead. He _wanted_ to be dead.

He’d never realized that mortality could be a gift. The knowledge that their suffering would eventually come to an end must be a blessed relief for humans. Maybe that was why they killed each other with such impunity. Maybe that was why they held their own lives so cheap. Maybe, by some twisted logic, mortality bred contempt for life and a yearning for death. Or maybe it simply bred madness. He didn’t know.

And so he burned on the outside and raged on the inside, and Michael didn’t visit him.

His recovery was the work of years rather than months or days. He was treated by a series of doctors and nurses, all of whom said things like “lucky to be alive” and “miraculous” and “amazing progress,” but he had little to say to any of them. They didn’t understand what had happened to him. They only saw a mortal body that had overcome impossible odds, not an immortal body that had just… given up. What they called progress was nothing but stagnation. He healed, but sluggishly, and without much interest in the process.

His mind was even slower to mend itself. The war was over, and yet it was always with him. It cast a shadow in the daylight and crept into his bed at night. It hissed in his ear and howled in his dreams. It was more real to him than anything or anyone that he encountered in his daily life. It was more real to him than the maths that he had once loved, or the machines that he had once designed. For a little while, it was even more real to him than the sense of purpose that had driven him to learn and create from the day of his awakening. It was all-consuming.

...until one day, it wasn’t. One morning, he opened his healed eyes and stared at the bare walls of his cheap flat and saw, not chipping white paint and the scuff marks of renters past, but a world of possibilities. By the end of the day, one of those walls had been redecorated with numbers scribbled in bold black ink, and he fell into bed with the quiet certainty that his dreams would be easier.

After that, his progress was swifter. He dispensed with the doctors and nurses altogether - they couldn’t help him, and he didn’t want any of them to realize just how extraordinary his healing ability really was. His body grew strong again, and his disfigured flesh began to lose its melted appearance. He began to leave his home occasionally - just short trips at first, and then longer ones.  Finally, when all physical signs of his injuries had vanished, he began to think about completing his education - for this lifetime, at least.

In 1928, while Peter Langford was excavating the Alpha Gate near Giza, Rush was over two thousand miles away in Oxford, finishing his doctorate. After graduating, he accepted a teaching position and lived in relative comfort with his students and his maths for the next dozen years. Had he known then that a discovery had just been made which would someday unlock his own destiny… he still would have chosen to remain in Oxford, surrounded by comforting, abstract numbers. He wasn’t ready for destiny just yet.

War broke out again in 1939, but this time Rush was in no danger of being called to the front. He was in his 40’s (supposedly), and therefore not in danger of being drafted. He had no intention of becoming involved in what he had begun to think of as a particularly gruesome mortal pastime, but two years into the war, he was persuaded to trade the comfort and familiarity of Oxford for Bletchley Park. He remained there for the rest of the war, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Alan Turing and applying his skills and experience to cracking German codes. His decryption efforts focused first on the Enigma cipher, and later on the more complicated Lorenz cipher. When he concentrated only on the maths and not on the implications of his work, he even managed to enjoy himself.

By the end of 1945, 60 million people were dead, and Rush was thoroughly sick of the human race. He returned to Oxford, but he no longer found any comfort in teaching. So he retired early, bought an isolated house in Scotland, and spent the next few decades gardening, reading, carrying on various heated and entertaining correspondences with other mathematicians, and gazing through his telescope on rare cloudless nights.

It was peaceful, restful. Exactly what he needed after the lifetime he had just endured. The only problem was that he had too much time on his hands in which to contemplate the various possible reasons why Michael _still_ had not visited him.

When it was time to start over again, he was ready. He chose the name Nicholas Rush for this version of himself, because it sounded right. It rolled off his tongue readily, as if it had always belonged to him.  Nothing had ever fit so well, or made him feel so warm inside… with the possible exception of a deep, resonant voice calling him ‘Fledgling.’

But he wasn’t thinking about that.

He returned to Oxford, because why not? He was refreshed and eager to learn, and much had changed since his initial education there. Something was going to happen this lifetime - he was convinced of that - and he wanted to be ready.

He wasn’t ready for Gloria.

He first spotted her walking across a quad, a sunrise made flesh, bright and golden and full of life. The world rocked under his feet as she passed by. She wore a whimsical smile and carried a violin case, and he watched her in a daze. He had no idea what was happening to him. He couldn’t explain his racing heart, or the prickle of heat in his cheeks, or the trumpets blaring in his head. He couldn’t place this heady mixture of stupefaction and joy and wonder and anxiety. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

He spotted her again a week later, sharing a large umbrella with a couple of friends and laughing as she stretched out an arm to catch raindrops in her palm. Then he saw her on the front steps to one of the lecture halls, her nose buried in a book. He didn’t try to speak to her on either occasion - it didn’t even occur to him to do so. She captivated him, but he wasn’t quite sure why. And while mysteries always intrigued him, some instinct warned him that he should handle this one with care.

When he saw her in the library playing a game of chess with herself at a corner table, he couldn’t help but approach. He didn’t mean to call attention to his presence - he just wanted to see what moves she would make, what strategies she would employ. That was all. And if he admired the way her hair caught a stray sunbeam and gleamed like a beacon in the shadows, or if he liked the way she crinkled her nose in concentration before each careful placement of a piece on the board, those were secondary factors. It was the game that interested him.

So when she suddenly stopped playing and swept her arm across the board, piling all the pieces on one side, he inadvertently let out a cry of protest. “Why did you do that?”

Without bothering to look at him, she began to set up the pieces for a new game. Her lips curved in a faint smile. “I was losing.”

He let out a huff of surprised laughter and drifted a few steps closer. “That does tend to happen when you play against yourself,” he pointed out.

She hummed in agreement, still looking at the board instead of at him. He found himself moving still closer, curious to know what she planned to do next.

When all the pieces were in place, she finally glanced up at him. “Black or white?”

He blinked, thrown off balance by her question. “What?”

She repeated herself, speaking more slowly and emphasizing each word. “Black or white?” Her mouth was still quirked into that small, almost secretive smile.

Rush stared at her, and then at the board, and then at her again. Then he pulled out the chair opposite hers and seated himself at the table. “Black,” he said, trying to will away the fluttering sensation in his chest.

Her smile widened. She turned the board so that the black pieces were on his side.

“I’m Nicholas Rush,” he offered, because it seemed very important that she knew that. He finally had a name that fit, and this golden creature needed to hear it.

“I know who you are.”

“You’ve heard of me?” he asked, nonplussed.

“Mm. Just a few things. Someone described you as the rudest man in Oxford.”

“Only when Dr. Whitters is on holiday.”

She laughed aloud at that.

“Oh, you’ve had him, then?”

She confirmed it with a vigorous nod and a rueful twist of the lips.

Rush grinned, beginning  to feel more comfortable. The flutter in his chest was still present, but a warm glow of happiness had settled in to join it. “What’s your name?” he asked, feeling bold.

“Gloria.”

He let out another breath of laughter at that. Gloria. Of course. She couldn’t have had any other name, really. It echoed in his ears like a thousand angel voices singing praises to their Sovereign. It felt like a friendly tap on the shoulder from on high. _You didn’t forget your maker, did you?_

No, but he didn’t mind reminders like this one.

“Is that funny?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “I just think it’s very appropriate.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully, still smiling, and moved one of her pawns.

After that, he saw her nearly every day. They played chess and went for walks and shared meals, and it was nice. Comfortable, yet exciting at the same time. She was unlike any mortal he had ever met. She was somehow more real, more alive than any of them. When he was with her, he remembered what it was like to be surrounded by glowing, vibrant beings in his homeland.

They had been seeing each other for a month when she finally informed him that they were in a relationship. He was somewhat startled by the idea. Relationships - familial, romantic, sexual - were things that _other_ people had. But then she kissed him, and he found himself warming up to the idea very quickly.

A few months later, he did what he thought he would _never_ do for any mortal: he revealed his wings to her. Her initial awe lasted only as long as it took her to spot the lamentable state of his feathers, and then she went straight to work. As she smoothed and arranged his battered plumage, his relief was so profound that the tears rolled down his face unchecked.

For the first time in nearly a century and a half, he completely forgot to miss Michael.

Having Gloria at his side opened up new facets of the human experience to Rush. He learned what it felt like to fall in love, and to have his feelings reciprocated. He learned all about the pleasures of sex (and hoped that the lesson would be repeated very often). He _tried_ to learn how to socialize and make small talk with Gloria’s friends and relatives, but she laughingly declared it a lost cause.

He had never been so happy before, and the fact that it was a temporary happiness only made it sweeter. He just couldn’t have guessed _how_ temporary it would prove to be. He’d let himself forget how fragile mortal bodies really were.

He had assumed that they would grow old together, and that he would have her by his side right up until the moment when he was ready to start over as someone new. And that would be difficult. That would be the most painful thing he had ever experienced. But at least it would be a natural ending.

 _This_ was not a natural ending.

This was an enemy he couldn’t ever hope to understand or fight. This was a tearing sensation in his chest and tear stains on Gloria’s cheeks. This was something dark and terrible enough to make him swallow his pride and beg, in reluctant, halting speech, for the Sovereign to send one of their Healers. But maybe cancer was just another item on the list entitled, ‘Not Our Fight,’ because no angels came to Gloria’s aid.

When there was nothing more that human medicine could do for Gloria, Rush buried himself in his work and tried to forget. The Icarus Project was certainly a fine distraction. He began to make frequent off-world trips to the newly discovered Icarus planet, and his interest in the never-ending universe was rekindled. So when he heard of Gloria’s death - all alone in a hospital room many light years away - he threw himself into his work with a fierce, almost desperate single-mindedness.

He worked and mourned and worked even harder, channeling all his grief into the numbers that filled up his notepads and whiteboards. He barely slept, forgot to eat, and was liable to break down in wracking sobs if he let himself slow down for even a moment. So he just worked.

And Michael didn’t visit him.


	6. Home

“What I still can’t figure out,” said Young in a long-suffering tone, “is how you managed to get this much sand in your feathers. Did you _roll_ in it?”

“Mm?” Rush hummed vaguely. He was sitting hunched forward on the low table in Young’s quarters, his shirts off and his wings exposed. Young was seated on the couch behind him, painstakingly shaking the sand free from each of his feathers and stroking them to smoothness. Every once in a while there was the soft whisper of more sand hitting the floor. Other than that, and Young’s occasional dry observations, the room was still and peaceful. Rush was overcome with a potent blend of exhaustion and bliss, and he was on the verge of nodding off. Still, he roused himself enough to answer thickly, “No. Oh, yes, but that was before my wings were out.”

“Nice. That explains how you got so much of it in your hair, at least.” Young ruffled Rush’s hair, and more sand found its way to the floor… and into Rush’s eyes.

Rush blinked rapidly and grunted inarticulately in displeasure.

“Sorry,” Young said with dubious sincerity.

“Just focus on the wings,” Rush grumbled.

He felt the touch of large, steady hands sliding over his feathers, and all tension went out of his body once more. Yes, that was _perfect_. Young really was remarkably skilled at this.

In spite of his memory loss, Young had never needed any instruction from Rush on the art of grooming. That first time on Icarus Base, he had begun by saying, “Stop me if I hurt you. I have no idea what I’m doing here.” And then he had followed up that warning by tending to Rush’s wings with the gentle, patient competence of one who had done so countless times before. His hands remembered far more than his brain, apparently.

It always made Rush wonder what Young had been like before his fall. The hints of gold on his blackened wings definitely suggested that he had been a member of the Host, and probably an officer of some sort. Every angel’s wings were different, but they still held clues to their owner’s function and rank. The more radiant and metallic, the higher the rank. Gold indicated a member of the Host, just as silver or platinum indicated a Herald and copper or bronze indicated a Healer. Golden flecks or streaks or tips usually signified the infantry. Officers usually had larger swathes of gold across their wings. Rush had no idea how much of Young’s wings had once been the glorious gold of his crowning feathers, but if he had to guess based on what he’d seen of Young’s tarnished plumage, probably at least the uppermost half. Definitely an officer, then.

He wondered what sort of officer Young had been in the Host. Judging by his track record in this realm, probably not an altogether satisfactory one. Perhaps that was why he had fallen. Did angels fall for being bad at their jobs? That didn’t seem quite right to Rush, somehow. He hadn’t been a very good servant, and the worst that had ever happened to him was an occasional whipping. But perhaps it was different for the Host, where the responsibility borne by each soldier was so much greater. Maybe too many mortals had died on Young’s watch. Maybe he had disobeyed orders. Maybe he hadn’t got on well with Michael.

It hardly mattered now. Whatever Young’s past sins, he undoubtedly meant well now, and he had the benefit of Rush’s guidance. And he showed promise as a companion, if not as a leader. As far as flock-mates went, Rush could have done much worse.

“You asleep over there?” Young asked, bringing Rush out of his comfortable reverie.

“Mmm? No.”

“Well, you should probably find yourself a room after we’re finished here and hit the sack for a few hours.”

Truth be told, that sounded wonderful to Rush. His whole body was deliciously relaxed, and his mind was in that hazy twilight state which could easily give way to sleep if he closed his eyes and let himself fall into the darkness behind his lids. But sadly, that wasn’t a possibility right now.

“Can’t,” Rush said with a regretful shake of his head. He could feel his shoulders tensing up already at the thought of all the work that called to him. “Too many more problems to address. I think we might have power issues and I need to--”

Young placed a large, cool palm on the bare, hot, sun-reddened skin between Rush’s shoulderblades, and Rush felt everything within him go quiet once more. He stopped talking and just breathed.

“Understood,” Young said mildly. “This will take a little while longer, so feel free to drift off here.”

“I’d rather you told me how Scott took his rescue,” Rush said, blaming his flushed cheeks on his sunburn as Young removed his hand and went back to work on Rush’s feathers.

Young chuckled softly. “He thinks he hallucinated the whole thing. Said he thought for a while there that the Angel of Death had come for him.”

Rush gave a startled laugh. “The Angel of Death? I’m flattered.”

“So there is one?” Young asked, his tone betraying a mixture of doubt and interest. “An Angel of Death?”

“Well, the leader of the Host usually bears that title. They don’t actually collect the souls of dead mortals and lead them to the afterlife, though. Waste of time. Souls know what they’re about much better than any creature who doesn’t have one.”

“I see,” Young said, and he digested that piece of information in silence for a couple minutes. Then he asked, “So who leads the Host right now?”

Somehow, Rush had known that question was coming. It wasn’t a topic that he wanted to discuss, but to refuse to answer would only arouse Young’s curiosity further. “Michael,” he answered simply.

“Like, the one from the Bible?”

“The very same.”

“Huh.”

Young seemed ready to let the subject drop at that, much to Rush’s relief. There was silence between them for a while, and Rush considered taking Young up on the suggestion that he should doze off a bit now while he was forced into this inactivity.

But then Young spoke again, his quiet voice pairing oddly with the ominous ring of his words. “You know, Scott isn’t really the one you should be worried about.”

“Oh?” Rush said inquiringly, although he was afraid he could guess whom Young was referring to.

“Apparently you put on a little show for Greer.”

Damn it. He’d known that was going to come back to haunt him. “So I have sharper reflexes than he was expecting,” he said with as much airy unconcern as he could manage. “That can be explained away.”

“He said your hair changed color.”

Ah. So that’s what had made Greer’s eyes turn so round and confused. Rush had known there was a risk that his disguise would slip if he called upon his (admittedly limited) angelic powers, and apparently it had. “Trick of the light?”

“Right. Because light is so scarce in a desert in the middle of the day.”

Rush sighed. “Well,” he said philosophically, “At least it wasn’t my eyes.”

There was a horrified silence from Young as the full implications of that reference hit home, and then, “ _Fuck_ , Rush. You’re an idiot.”

“I saved Scott’s life, and everyone else’s in the process. It was worth the risk.”

“You could be full of holes right now,” Young growled. He had stopped meticulously shaking Rush’s feathers free of sand and was now just stroking his fingers through them, over and over again in a repetitive motion that probably soothed him as much as it did Rush.

Rush leaned back into the sensation, finally allowing his eyes to close. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he murmured.

“Some of the people on this ship have been fighting aliens for half their lives, Rush. You can’t let them know you’re not human.”

“Worried about me?”

“ _Yes_.”

Oh. Well, that was… a bit different. Rather nice, though. It was a strange thing to feel cared for. It had only happened twice before in Rush's life, but he still remembered how good it had felt when Michael had treated him with respect, and when Gloria…

But it was better not to think about Gloria now, when the warm pleasure of grooming had loosened the bands around his broken heart and rendered him vulnerable to surges of emotion. Instead, he was going to focus on Young’s steady hands on him, and the comfort of knowing that he wasn’t alone. He finally had a name, a home, a purpose, and quite unexpectedly, a friend. It was more than he had hoped for, and he was smart enough to be grateful for it.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

Young’s voice was low and rich and almost tender as he said, “Thank you.”

Rush shifted and blinked his eyes open. “Will you be able to keep Greer quiet?” he asked, since he had no idea what else to say. He didn’t know what to do with the tiny flicker of joy that had just sprung up in the depths of his heart, so he was going to just ignore it for now. That was safest.

“Yes,” said Young.

Not even a hint of doubt. Rush thought it must be nice to have that much confidence in one’s subordinates. He wouldn’t trust any of the mismatched assortment of scientists aboard this ship as far as he could throw them, with the _possible_ exception of Eli.

“Rush, I have to to ask you something.”

And speaking of trust...

“Did you mean what you said back on Icarus Base? About dialing Earth?”

 _This_ again.

Well, Rush had known this question would resurface as soon as things calmed down a bit. And why not now, when they were both relaxed and more in tune with each other than they could ever hope to be under more stressful circumstances? It was a gift, really. He was being given the opportunity to regain a little bit of Young’s trust. Best make the most of it.

“That it could have been disastrous? Absolutely,” Rush said calmly. “You know why we had never dialed that gate to Earth before, right?”

“Power issues,” Young said vaguely. “But I thought you fixed them. I thought that was what you and Eli solved.”

“We determined how to safely power the gate when dialing the nine chevron address,” Rush corrected. “Not when dialing an address within our galaxy. The distinction is important. Dialing Earth would have required another set of calculations, the work of days or weeks, not an instant. The overload of the core made the outcome of the dialing attempt even harder to predict. It could have been perfectly safe. It could have destroyed Earth along with the Icarus planet. I can’t determine that any better now than I could have then.”

Rush felt Young’s fingers bend and dig into his secondary coverts, ruffling them again. A little warning bell went off in Rush’s head. For a moment, he wondered whether he should pull away and put some distance between them.  But apparently the action had been involuntary on Young’s part, because he immediately set to work fixing Rush’s newly disheveled feathers.

“And that’s the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Young said, giving each secondary covert his close attention. Rush began to lose his momentary sense of alertness and slide back into his previous state of lethargic bliss, but then Young added, “But what if it wasn’t?”

“Pardon?”

“What if it wasn’t true? What if you could have safely dialed Earth? Would you have done it?”

Oh, now, that really wasn’t fair. Here Rush was, trying to be honest and cooperative, and Young was changing the rules of the game. What did the man want from him?

The truth, apparently. _Fine._

“No,” Rush said resolutely.

The hands on Rush’s feathers continued their smooth, rhythmic motion without pause. Young wasn’t reacting at all. Had he even heard Rush? Shouldn’t he be shouting right now?

“Okay,” Young repeated after a moment. “Thank you for being honest.”

Oh. O _h._ He wasn’t even surprised by Rush’s response. He had been expecting it. The question had been a test to see whether Rush would answer truthfully. Well… Rush had. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He didn’t particularly enjoy being manipulated, but on the other hand, Young was still stroking his coverts instead of getting angry, so perhaps Rush should count it as a win and move on.

“You’re welcome,” he said, with maybe just a _hint_ of sarcasm.

“Just give me a heads up next time you’re thinking about putting my people at risk for your little mission from God, okay?” Young said, and now his voice had a slight edge to it. But there was also that underlying note of… what was it, exactly? Fond exasperation? As if he was torn between the friendship he felt for Rush and the duty he felt toward the people under his command.

Again, it was odd to know that he was cared for. Odd, but nice. As nice as the feeling of Young’s fingers sliding over his wings, turning disorder into beauty everywhere he touched.

“I see no reason why we can’t work together toward both ends,” Rush replied cautiously. Hopefully. “My calling, and the safety of the humans.”

“We’ll aim for that, then,” Young agreed.

Slightly noncommittal, perhaps, but it was a start. Rush drew in a deep breath and let it out in a satisfied sigh.

This was right. This was destiny. This was _home_.

And he wasn’t alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and be sure to visit me on [Tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/) for writing updates and general fandom squeeing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Like any other](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2717036) by [Yoyi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoyi/pseuds/Yoyi)




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